


Come To Order

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-13 02:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7135508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A futuristic AU fiction in which the government reigns supreme in the land and all criminals become slaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

      Democracy had not been working anymore, at least not the concept of democracy that our nation’s forefathers had hammered out more than three centuries before. Over the years, this evolving model called “democracy” had been slowly and methodically twisted into something grotesquely bloated and distorted, thus putting our country in grave peril. One of the greatest super powers on earth was headed for an ignominious end just like the mighty Roman Empire of antiquity.

     The dawn of the new millennium saw the fat cats getting richer by cutting slick deals to line their pockets. Sitting politicians grew greedier, more corrupt, and more than eager to jettison their morals to keep their incumbencies. The ranks of the poor swelled with increasing numbers of illegal, disenfranchised immigrants. The rising hoards of those people, plus indigenous citizens on the dole, always had their hands out for more, more, more. The shrinking middleclass was caught in the jaws of a vise having the life squeezed out of them.

     Crime had become rampant and prisons were straining at the seams to house the offenders. It became common practice to release felons early to alleviate the overcrowding. The result was a vicious cycle of more crimes and criminals back on the streets. Drug wars, human trafficking, and drive-by shootings were so common that news commentators sometimes didn’t even mention them during their broadcasts. The situation had reached critical mass and something had to be done.

     A consortium of concerned and powerful people put their differences aside to formulate a plan. It had taken a bit of time to check their egos at the door and to brainstorm positive ideas and plausible alternatives. But they had done it. This was not a Congress with a vested self-interest in keeping the status quo. This was a brain trust from some of the most prestigious institutions in the country. They did not have a political affiliation one way or the other. They answered to no one but themselves and their cohorts. When the time was right, they orchestrated a bloodless coup, and ushered in a new form of government that they called “Come To Order.”

     There was no longer a President or a Congress of the United States of America, no longer a Department of this, that or the other. There were no longer overlapping and territorial agencies like the CIA, the FBI, or Homeland Security, who had routinely played things so close to the vest that nothing was ever shared for the common good. Instead, a revolving triumvirate of three men headed the country, and everyone reported to them. They, in turn, appointed other triumvirates in each of the fifty states. However, the national big wigs continued to have their fingers on the pulse of every aspect of life throughout the country.

     Their first order of business was the crime problem. Trial by jury became a thing of the past. It was too time-consuming, expensive, and had too many loopholes utilized by slick defense attorneys. Now the regional triumvirates examined all proven crimes and made the ultimate decisions. If the offender had been violent during the commission of the crime, he was swiftly executed by lethal injection—no ridiculous plea-bargains, no lengthy appeals, no stays of executions, no last minute pardons, and no Supreme Court interference.

     If the proven felon was non-violent, he was remanded to prison with no chance of parole. However, he did not get to languish there with three square meals a day, air-conditioning, and a 50” flat screen in the dayroom. He was electronically shackled and made to work in the community. These were the drones put on the assembly lines. Now the United States made affordable vehicles, televisions, and computers and didn’t have to rely on imports from the Orient where labor was cheap. Criminals in the United States were free labor.

     They also worked in the coalmines, and on oil and gas pipelines that were no longer verboten because of some endangered species’ habitat. The Middle East could keep their oil and cook with it! The prisoners repaired highways, tilled the soil on farms, and did janitorial work right alongside of non-criminals. That’s right—no more freebies. If you wanted to eat, then you had to work at whatever task that you could do. The government would assist you only if you could show a paycheck, no matter how small. This new form of government was, by no means, utopian, but it was certainly a more viable option to forestall the looming crises of a vast nation in jeopardy.

     Of course, there were still crimes being committed—that was the nature of the beast. There were always those people who coveted what someone else had, and would take it because they could. That is where a small percentage of the felon population came in handy. Every non-violent offender was given a battery of extensive mental tests when they were first incarcerated in the system. If their intelligence quotients and mental aptitudes were high enough above the norm, they were given the option of working with the local police in a clandestine capacity. They were paired with one handler—lived with him, ate with him, and did his overall bidding. These former criminals were facetiously called acolytes. In reality, they were nothing if not slaves for life.

     Acolytes were not electronically shackled. How would they explain away a bulky anklet when they went into deep cover?  Instead, a small tracking device was implanted behind their left ear. This handy miniscule chip was capable of more than communicating with an app on a phone or a computer. When a button on a key fob was pushed, it delivered a painful electrical pulse strong enough to scramble a felon’s brain. It could incapacitate even the strongest he-man, and a demonstration of its intensity was usually only necessary one time.

*****

      Peter Burke had been with “Come To Order” in New York City’s crime fighting division for the last fifteen years. He had steadily climbed the ladder with a dogmatic and focused approach, sometimes to the exclusion of everything else. Ten years ago, his wife had packed her bags and left, saying that she couldn’t compete for his attention any longer, nor did she wish to try. It was obvious to her, if not to him, that his obsessive-compulsive nature left no room in his life for anything but the job. Sadly, he couldn’t argue with her on that point.

     With nothing to distract him, Peter was now pretty high up in the pecking order. Most government employees in his sector were housed in high-rise condos in the city. Peter had been awarded a small townhouse in the suburbs wedged in between a never-ending row of others just like it. The difference between his house and others was that the interior and exterior of his were rather Spartan. He had no interest in anything but the basics. While the neighbors’ small fenced-in backyards were a riot of seasonal blooms tended by their wives, Peter’s struggled to produce even the scrawniest of green grass. He kept up repairs and maintenance, but that was about it for his interest in home and hearth.

     Peter had another home—a glassed-in office in the Order’s Manhattan building, and that was where he presently was in deep discussion with a colleague, Jim Hardesty. Hardesty headed the Order’s Correctional Division.

     “Come on, Peter, it’s time to get back on the horse. It’s been over six months since you lost Mort Ferber, and it’s time that you took on another acolyte.”

     Mort Ferber had been a disappointment to Peter Burke on so many levels. The man might have had a brilliant mind, but he could not multi-task if his life depended on it. In reality, his life had depended on his talking his way out of a bad situation, and he just hadn’t been able to pull it off. A cartel of drug traffickers had used him for target practice.

     “Maybe these acolytes are more of a pain in the ass than an asset,” Peter groused.

     “Look, my friend,” Hardesty cajoled, “I have the perfect specimen for you, everything and more that was on your must-have list. Neal Caffrey is just twenty-two—you said that you wanted someone young enough not be jaded, and someone that you could mold and mentor into the perfect operative. His intelligence scores are off the charts, his health is excellent, and he’s easy on the eyes. That was one of your requests, if I remember correctly.”

     “Well, you can’t blame me for that,” Peter argued. “Looking at Ferber everyday was like looking at a troll that lived under a bridge. It was actually painful having to see that across the breakfast table every morning.”

     Hardesty grinned. “Actually, this one looks like a choirboy, and he’s been pretty placid while in custody.”    

      Peter finally gave in and asked for details. “So, what’s Caffrey’s backstory?”

     “As far as we could determine, he was raised in an orphanage, but took a runner at age fourteen. He apparently found his niche with a small group of forgers and scammers, and did some brilliant work for them. He excelled at cat burglary and swapping out his own paintings for grand masterpieces in some of the most well guarded museums in the world. He’s like a Renaissance Man with his many talents. Actually, the only reason that we were able to apprehend him was because of a rat in his pack. End of story.”

     Peter was quietly thoughtful until Hardesty resumed the hard sell.

     “Look, Buddy, if you don’t snatch him up, Mel Jacobson has dibs, and you know his story. He rides ‘em hard and puts ‘em away wet. Not a pretty picture on so many levels, if you get my drift.”

     Peter blew out a deep sigh and finally caved. “Okay, bring him in tomorrow for a once over and I’ll let you know if I’m game for another go-around.”

     Jim Hardesty smiled. “I think that you’ll be surprised and pleased with your new personal slave.”


	2. Chapter 2

     That evening, Peter sat with a bottle of beer in one hand and Neal Caffrey’s file in the other. If all the facts were correct, this wunderkind was amazingly talented and brilliant. And Jim Hardesty was right on another point, as well. The small booking snapshot showed a young man gifted with distinctive and attractive features—high cheek bones, a thinly sculpted, straight nose, and a square chin. No doubt, the Creator had felt magnanimous when he had fashioned this kid. In another lifetime, Caffrey probably would have been pictured as prom king in his high school yearbook. Well, the orphan runaway never even graduated from high school. Did the lack of familial roots set him out on a very different path? The “why” really didn’t matter at this point. The die had been cast, and Caffrey’s future would be to grow old in the system unless he died in the line of duty. Peter sighed and knew that he was probably in for a world of trouble with this one, but he had never in his life backed down from a challenge.

     The next morning, a staunchly determined Peter mandated that Caffrey be brought to the Division’s office and placed in an interrogation room. When he was notified that the criminal was in-house, Peter began the process. He found Caffrey seated at a table in the small, claustrophobic room with a guard hovering at his back. Peter entered that room with a thick stack of files in his hand that he abruptly slammed down onto the tabletop. He was gratified that the loud, unexpected bang made the tentative new recruit flinch. The guard was also quick to react as he prodded his charge with the end of his baton.

     “Stand up when a superior enters the room! Show Sector Chief Burke the respect that he deserves.”

     Caffrey obeyed and Peter got his first glimpse of the kid in the flesh. And Peter knew that he was, indeed, just a kid. He looked a lot younger than his stated age, and Peter would bet that it was off by several years. He was tall, maybe just a few inches shy of Peter’s impressive 6’2” stature. He had the lean musculature of a marathon runner. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body. What the black and white snapshot hadn’t shown was the thickness of a head of dark brown hair or the unusual aquamarine color of his eyes. He really was spectacular in the flesh.

     Peter looked the felon in the eye and didn’t see fear, just a kind of curiosity in his non-wavering stare. So, Peter went for intimidating as he walked to Caffrey’s left side, grabbed his head in a meaty hand, and tilted it sideways so that he could assure himself. He was gratified to see a recent scar behind Caffrey’s left ear and knew that the tracking implant was in place. Peter walked again behind the desk and held up the key fob.

     “You know what this is?” Sector Chief Burke asked quietly.

     Caffrey was good at hiding emotion, but Peter was a master at reading even the slightest anomaly. He saw the felon’s eyes widen just a fraction and observed a certain rigidity in his muscles. Peter had his answer even before Caffrey nodded in the affirmative. Apparently, the device had been tested after it had been inserted.

     “Answer aloud when you are spoken to by your handler,” the guard had snarled as he again advanced forward with a raised baton.

     “It’s all right,” Peter reassured the man. “I think that I can take it from here, Sentinel. Leave him to me. You’re dismissed.”

     After the guard closed the door behind him, Peter took a seat at the interrogation table, nonchalantly put his crossed feet up on the edge, and began twirling the key fob in his fingers. He did not invite Neal to sit; he needed to establish his authority from the get-go.

     “Your file claims that you are pretty smart, Caffrey. Are you?”

     Caffrey regarded Peter warily, like a cat perched on a ledge, as he pondered what was the right response to give this threatening man. He finally answered softly in a steady, well-modulated voice.

     “Well, the Order administered all the tests, so I suppose that I must accept their conclusions.”

     Peter waited a few minutes, attempting to make Caffrey nervous during the interim. So far, his tactics didn’t seem to be working. Caffrey hung in rock steady with no rapid eye-blinking or apprehensive beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

     “Do you know—really know—what it means to be an acolyte, Caffrey? Not that I’m convinced that I want you as mine at this juncture.” Peter purposely remained non-committal.

     “I was informed of the requirements of the job,” Neal answered.

     “Well, maybe you didn’t get the unvarnished version,” Peter said snidely. “It means that I own you for the rest of your life, and I can do anything that I want with you. I can work you like a dog, send you on suicide missions, beat you bloody, or fuck you senseless. Whatever I wish at any moment in time.”

     Neal didn’t flinch. “I’ve heard the stories,” he said dispassionately.

     “So, tell me why you are so eager to put your life in my hands, Caffrey?”

     Neal didn’t blink. “I don’t think that ‘eager’ applies here. It’s a fate accompli. If not you, then there’s always the next person down the line.”

     Peter sat back and admitted to himself that he was coming to have a sudden respect for this brash young man. He definitely had balls, and Peter approved.

     “So, ‘Mister Master Criminal,’ entice me to take you on. This stack of files contains some particularly perplexing unsolved cases presently on my plate. I want to see if you are as good as all the hype. Solve a few before the end of the day, and you may have found a new home.”

     Peter then rose, and firmly closed the door behind him as he exited.

     The day progressed, and, as usual, Peter became mired down in his duties. He always developed tunnel vision when presented with the challenges of being Section Chief. His focus was intent to the exclusion of everything else around him. Thus, it was almost five o’clock when he realized that he had completely forgotten about Neal Caffrey. He hadn’t assigned anyone to feed him or even escort him to the bathroom. He quickly pulled up the tracking app on his key fob and was relieved to see that the young criminal was right where he had left him hours ago.

     When he opened the door to the stuffy and now darkened interrogation room, he found Caffrey slumped at the desk with his head on his folded arms. The files were still neatly stacked on the corner of the table. Hearing someone enter, he lifted bleary, bloodshot eyes to Peter.

     “Well, I hate to disturb your beauty sleep, Caffrey, but I have to ask. Did you manage to accomplish anything?” Peter demanded.

     Lethargically, Neal pulled three files from the top of the heap.

     “I think that I may have a handle on these—the stock market fraud case, the kidnapping of the executive, and the theft from the MoMA. I can’t really prove my hypothesis on the first two without access to bank records in order to check some facts. However, I’m pretty sure I know how the theft from the museum was accomplished because I’m familiar with the building’s schematics. The thieves used the ventilation ducts.”

     Although Peter’s face did not show it, he was impressed—really impressed. These were the first leads that anyone had managed to ferret out after weeks of trying.

     “Well, okay then. I’ll have someone check that out tomorrow. You can consider yourself lucky because now you have earned yourself a night’s lodging at Casa Burke.”

     Before they made their way from the building, Peter dragged Neal into the men’s room, standing with arms folded as the young criminal used the urinal. It was all a continuing process to make Caffrey feel that he was just a possession with no expectation of privacy. Peter made sure that he got a good look, and realized that God had been generous in that department as well.

     Neal fell in two steps behind his possible new handler as they made their way to the garage. The car ride home was silent. The young man’s only reaction was to brace himself each time that Peter made his abruptly terrifying lane maneuvers. When they eventually made it home in one piece, Peter popped two frozen dinners into the oven, and then took Neal to the second floor where he opened the door to a rather bare second bedroom containing only a chest of drawers, a brass bed, and a night table with a lamp.

     “There are some clothes in the closet left by my last acolyte. He was skinny like you, so they may fit. You can put them on tomorrow when we leave for the office,” Peter spat out in staccato fashion.

     “What happened to him?” Neal asked curiously—the first words that he had spoken since leaving the Order’s office.

     “Death happened to him,” Peter said nastily.

     Dinner was another quiet interlude. Afterwards, metals trays were tossed into the trash and utensils and mugs placed in the dishwasher before both men made their way up the stairs.

     “Is it okay if I take a shower?” Neal asked innocently.

     “Sure, just leave the door open while you’re in there,” his new master dictated.

     Peter then made sure to be standing in the hallway leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed once more when Neal left the bathroom with a towel around his hips. What the older man saw was, indeed, pleasing to the eye. Sure, Neal was on the thin side, but not Ichabod Crane gangly like the ugly Ferber had been. His torso was well proportioned and muscular, his abdominals flat and ripped. The ass under that towel was rounded and firm. Yes, Peter definitely liked what he saw!

     Peter could have sworn that his voice was a little hoarse when he told his new charge to leave his bedroom door open as well. He realized that he had never had these rules while Mort Farber had lived under his roof. Actually, the less he saw of that awkward man the better. This new acquisition was a whole other ball of wax. It thrilled him to no end that he could look for as long as he liked. Once in his own bed, Peter took himself in hand, stroking and fantasizing. Yes, Neal Caffrey was definitely going to be his new acolyte!


	3. Chapter 3

     The first thing that Peter did the next morning was to peer into Neal’s bedroom. He suddenly became anxious because the bed was empty and neatly made up. He immediately scanned the criminal’s tracking app and was relieved when he found that Neal was still in the house. Peter then showered and dressed before making his way downstairs to the kitchen where he discovered the young man brewing coffee and toasting bagels. He had on a pair of jeans and a collared shirt under a navy blazer. He looked presentable for the office, but Peter made a note to himself that he would have to get some conservative new suits for his acolyte when he went undercover.

     When they arrived at the office, Peter led Neal into a tiny cubicle adjacent to his office. A computer was situated on a desk as well as a wire basket containing various files.

    “Sit,” was Peter’s harsh command.

     When Neal had immediately obeyed, Peter placed both hands on the desk and loomed menacingly over his charge.

     “This computer is equipped with a keystroke logger, Neal, so make sure that whatever you research has something to do with whatever case that you are working on. I will always check, and there is no way that you can hide your Internet history by deleting it. I hope you realize that if you go off-book and try to engineer some kind of escape, I will catch you. It definitely will not be pretty. You will have forfeited any opportunity to be passed on to some other handler. You will be done for good. Either you are compliantly mine or you’re dead. Got it?”

     Peter’s intimidation tactics fell short because Neal’s only response was a blasé and flippant, “Got it in one, O Great Master of My Life.”

     “Don’t try to get cute with me, Neal. You will address me as Section Chief Burke. Maybe, down the road, if this pans out, I may let you call me Peter. However, that may be many miles down the road because you need to continue to prove your worth to me.”

     This time there were no pithy remarks from the cornered felon.

*****

      Neal did indeed succeed in proving his value. Over the course of the following weeks, upon request, he had replicated, or forged, if you want to call a spade a spade, a Manet. That perfect forgery netted the Order an elusive fence and a nefarious wealthy buyer.

     Next, the Order needed fake gems to trap a purveyor of African blood diamonds and other assorted uncut gems. Neal had come through on that one as well. He had initially requested some very expensive equipment, but it had enabled him to create some spectacular doppelgangers that were used in a sting operation.

     The young man also had a head for unraveling knotty Ponzi schemes and hinky transactions on paper. However, as yet, Neal had not been utilized in the field. Peter wasn’t quite sure why he, as his handler, was dragging his feet on this issue.

     Although their relationship continued to be tenuous, there had been no problems to worry Peter. The two cohabited uneventfully in the small townhouse by basically keeping out of each other’s way, and outside of the office, they conversed very little. Maybe that was why Peter was worried about clandestine work. Neal needed the gift of gab—the right knack of persuasive blarney—to get illicit marks to trust him. He needed to think on the fly and improvise, if necessary. To date, Peter had not heard anything that even resembled Neal’s fabled silver tongue. Whether he liked it or not, visions of Mort Farber remained in Peter’s brain. He had sent his former and now deceased acolyte into a situation where he was in over his head, and hadn’t that turned out great! He did not want to make the same mistake again with this young one.

     His resolve to keep Neal safe was tested shortly afterwards. His handsome acolyte was seated in his cubicle one afternoon, head down over something that he was diligently writing, when a contemporary of Peter’s stopped by. Mel Jacobson hesitated briefly outside of Neal’s door and all but licked his lips as he leered.

     “You hittin’ on that, Burke?” the crass, uncouth man asked when he confronted Peter. “If I had that in my bed, I’d be nailing his ass to the mattress every night without fail. Wanna share?”

     “Can it, Jacobson! What do you want?” Peter was far from happy having to breathe the same air as this odious man. The jerk headed up the Vice Sector, so maybe it had rubbed off and went with the territory. Nevertheless, Peter didn’t like him one bit.

     Jacobson had an oily smile. “I’ve got the perfect job for your pretty little acolyte—right up his alley. We have been trying to break up this ring of extremely scuzzy dudes who abduct runaway girls off the streets and get them addicted. Then, for a fee, they parcel them out to sickos with ungodly kinks who like to do horrendous things to them to get their rocks off. When the unfortunate girls are pretty much used up and die when somebody gets overly ‘amorous,’ they’re tossed into landfills like yesterday’s garbage or on the side of the highway like roadkill.”

     Jacobson then hooked a thumb in Neal’s direction. “We were thinking that we could gussy up your slave in there to look like Little Lord Fauntleroy—you know the rich, entitled, and bratty kind. We’ll provide a backstory so that he appears to be a college kid with tons of money supplied by well-heeled, permissive parents. Of course, the good life has become boring for the restless young lad, and he now wants a taste of the strange and forbidden, the more debauched the better. He starts nosing around in the dark corners of that universe, asking just the right questions to get a contact and an invitation into the shadowy world of human trafficking.”

     “I’m not sure that I’m comfortable with that,” Peter protested. “He hasn’t been sent out into the field yet.”

     “Well,” Jacobson smirked, “he’s got to get his cherry popped sometime.”

     Peter reluctantly gave in, and the two men took Neal into the conference room and told him that he was being loaned to Vice temporarily. He was apprised of the plan and his part in it.

     “You’ll be working under Sector Chief Jacobson and reporting to him for the duration, Neal, but you’ll still come home with me every night,” Peter promised with a hard look in his contemporary’s direction. Without words, that piercing glare said, very explicitly, “Keep your hands off my property!” Peter hoped that Jacobson got the message.

     Neal simply nodded his head and stared at the two men with a bland, unfathomable expression. Not soon after, he obediently trailed Jacobson from the safety of Peter’s office.

     The first week of the human trafficking sting finally ended with no results. The names of the head honchos were still a mystery. Peter and Neal had just finished a home cooked meal that Neal had concocted. Soon after taking up residence with his boss, the young man, out of sheer desperation, had entreated Peter to order fresh meats and vegetables. “Please,” he had begged, “anything other than something that comes wrapped in foil from the frozen section of the grocery store.” He claimed to be a good cook, and, to Peter’s delight, he actually was.

     “So how’s your new case going, Neal?” Peter asked with no small degree of worry.

     Neal looked Peter in the eye. “It’s really disgusting, if you want to know the truth. Not that I’m complaining or anything because you have certainly made it crystal clear that I have no power over my life. You and your pals say, “jump,” and the only thing that I can ask is “how high?”

     Even though Peter couldn’t quite parse the feeling that welled up in his chest, he opted for the safest answer.

    “Well, Buddy, I’m glad that you got that concept.”

*****

     Three weeks later, after Neal had obtained the goods, arrests were made and unfortunate girls taken to hospitals. Peter breathed a sigh of relief when Neal was once again ensconced in his nearby cubicle. Now that the acolyte had gotten his feet wet, another undercover operation was immediately implemented. This should be more up Neal’s alley. He needed to embed himself within a band of slick “pump and dumpers” who were swindling unwary, naïve customers.

     This time, Peter actually got to listen to Neal’s smooth patter over a wire, and it was impressive to hear him work his magic and obtain the necessary evidence for arrests to be made. Neal probably would have been able to talk Mother Teresa out of her virginity, if given a chance!

     That evening, as the partners were preparing to leave, Consortium Head Bancroft came bounding up the steps to waylay them in their departure. Peter felt a strange, proprietary sense when he felt Neal instinctively move closer to him.

     “Just wanted to stop by and offer my sincere congratulations, Burke. You make me proud,” Bancroft crowed as he pumped Peter’s hand. He totally ignored Neal who was trying to make himself disappear behind his handler.

     Actually, Peter was the one who was really proud of his acolyte that day, and to celebrate he took him out to a fairly decent restaurant for dinner after Bancroft’s speedy exit. Peter imbibed with several beers and insisted that Neal have a few glasses of wine before the rare, sizzling steaks arrived on the plates set before them.

     “You did good, Neal. With you onboard, my closure rates have soared!” Peter crowed.

     “I live to serve, Sector Chief Burke,” Neal deadpanned.

     His handler cocked his head and said softly, “Maybe it’s time that you addressed me as Peter instead of that mouthful, Neal.”

     “Whatever floats your boat,” Neal quipped irreverently. Peter thought that the guy may have been just a bit tipsy from the unaccustomed alcohol.

     Neal actually fell asleep on the ride home, swaying from side to side as Peter negotiated the turns at inappropriate speeds. Peter eventually shook him awake when they arrived, and kept glancing behind to make sure that he was following up the steps to the townhouse. Once inside, the sleepy criminal mumbled, “Gonna take a shower,” as he trudged the stairs at a snail’s pace.

      Peter locked up and soon followed as a nebulous idea began forming in his muzzy, beer-addled brain.


	4. Chapter 4

     Peter was sitting on Neal’s bed, clad only in his boxers, when his acolyte returned from the shower. There were a few other items on that bed, as well. Neal stopped short just inside the doorway and looked at his handler with narrowed eyes. No words were spoken as Peter stood and tugged the towel from around Neal’s waist. He then proceeded to grasp the young man’s upper arm and maneuver him to stand next to the brass foot rail of the bed. Zip ties appeared next, and suddenly Neal’s hands were being tightly secured to the metalwork. Peter gripped Neal’s hips and tugged him backwards so that his body was now bent forward at a right angle. He kicked Neal’s feet wide and began his work in earnest.

     Peter spread those luscious cheeks apart, and, at first, could only insert just a forefinger into a very tight hole. However, he was determined to be patient and to take it slowly. If this was Neal’s first time, Peter wanted to do it right. Eventually, with persistent reaming and stretching, he finally managed two slicked fingers. All the while, the tendons on the young man’s arms remained taut, and the fingers on his hands were blanched white as they gripped the footboard tightly. Peter heard the hitch in Neal’s breathing, and didn’t fool himself for a minute that it signified lust. He was only too aware that Neal’s cock had remained flaccid through the long drawn out process, and nothing that he tried changed that state. But, Peter just couldn’t help himself; his own cock was now fully distended and throbbing, and there was no way he could stop even if he had wanted to.

     When he finally was able to get three fingers in, he dropped his boxers to the floor and kicked them away. Then he generously lubed his own cock and began to push gently into that hot, snug tunnel. As Peter slowly advanced, he felt Neal take in a ragged breath and hold it, his whole body rigid and strung as tight as a piano wire. Now the aroused older man was past the point of no return, and rocked back and forth at a steady pace. Peter tried to make it last, but the intensity of those wonderful sensations was too much, and the result was a furious pummeling. His orgasm was explosive, the spasms seeming to go on forever. He didn’t want to pull out right away—hell, he didn’t ever want to pull out! So, he sensually ran his hands slowly up Neal’s back and leaned over the prone man to nuzzle his neck.

     “You okay, Neal?” Peter whispered.

     The young man turned his head to the side and murmured, “The zip ties weren’t necessary, Peter.”

     “Maybe restraining you is a turn on for me,” Peter answered softly as he traced the scar behind Neal’s ear with his tongue. He smiled as he saw the gooseflesh appear on his acolyte’s arms.

     Eventually, he cut Neal loose and went into the bathroom to clean up. When he later walked by the second bedroom, the light was off and Neal was just an indistinct form under the blanket, his head burrowed deep and turned away from the door.

*****

     The next morning, Neal was nursing a cup of coffee when Peter came into the kitchen. There ensued an uncomfortable silence with Neal refusing to meet his handler's eyes. Peter took a deep breath and finally spoke up.

     “Maybe we should talk about last night,” he cautiously ventured.

     Neal answered into his coffee mug. “There’s nothing to discuss, Peter. You made it very clear the first day that we met that you owned me and could do whatever you wanted. I’m actually surprised that it took this long for you to climb into the saddle.”

     With that being succinctly said, the young man stood and rinsed his cup, carefully settling it into the dishwasher rack. He then awaited Peter in the small living room for another silent ride to the office.

     “Well,” Peter reasoned to himself during the very quiet drive into the city, “he’ll just have to get over his snit. I really didn’t hurt him, so he should consider himself lucky.” Somehow, he still felt a bit heartsick and maybe even a little ashamed.

*****

     Interaction between the two partners was stilted that day, but seemed to thaw a bit as the week drew to a close. So, on Friday night, Neal again found himself restrained, this time face up atop the bed. Peter made sure to draw out the foreplay by nipping, licking, and tantalizingly rubbing what should have been hot spots. Again, there was no response from Neal, other than placid resignation. Night after night, Peter kept trying to entice some kind of emotion. At this point, he’d settle for a good reaction or a bad one—just something! Occasionally, Neal’s cock would fill, but Peter knew enough about human anatomy to realize that if you hit the prostate often and hard enough, nature took over. However, Neal never came; he just wilted again when Peter was done.

     Three weeks later, Peter was beyond exasperated. It was time for a new approach in what he thought of as seduction. Unexpectedly, he chose to join Neal in his nightly shower, rubbing his soaped hands sensuously over the young man’s wet chest and stomach, and finally into his cleft. Afterwards, he attentively dried his would-be lover and led him to the bed. Tonight there would be no restraints, and for the first time since this all began, Peter gently kissed Neal on the lips. He deepened the caress, letting his tongue explore as his hands roamed the human topography that he knew so well. He licked stripes down Neal’s stomach, finally taking him into his mouth. He teased Neal’s cock, flicking and sucking, while his fingers probed into the now familiar darkness. To his ultimate frustration, Neal would not or could not return the affection, and Peter began to get angry because he felt like a damn fool for even trying.

     “What’s your problem, Neal?” Peter demanded to know as he rose up on his forearms. “This situation may not be your natural inclination, but face facts, Pal! There’s not a woman anywhere on the horizon for either of us, so let’s make the best of it and enjoy some release and a little pleasure wherever we can find it.”

     When Neal didn’t answer, Peter got even more angry.

     “You could have it a lot worse, Buddy. Jacobson literally drools all over himself whenever he sees you. Maybe you’d prefer a change of pace. I could lend you out to him again for a little R&R. Maybe then you’ll appreciate how really good that you have it!”

     Peter saw Neal’s eyes widen and suddenly felt very guilty for the threat. Shaking his head, he rolled off his young stud and abruptly left the room.

     The trysts ceased from that day onward. Working his own cock night after night was certainly no substitute for the real thing, but Peter refused to come begging for whatever morsel Neal might throw his way. Peter knew that he had to get past this somehow, but, as usual, he handled it badly. It really wasn’t retaliation, or so Peter reasoned, but he suddenly found that he was much more demanding of his acolyte at work. Neal always got the job done, but Peter was a relentless and harsh presence, always in Neal’s space and hovering menacingly. He no longer discussed anything with his subordinate in the office. Most times, he simply barked out orders. Neal remained obediently docile, letting the cutting words just hang in the air. He worked even harder to satisfy Peter, but these days, it was rare for him to meet his handler’s eyes.

     One evening, after a particularly frustrating day, Peter was in a really foul mood and was actually grumbling to himself. His division was having a hard time pinning down the source of the counterfeit currency being circulated in the city, and it was driving him nuts. As Peter stomped towards his car, Neal, as was his habit, followed deferentially two steps behind. Today, that respectful behavior set Peter off, and he angrily swung around to confront his acolyte.

     “Stop lagging behind like some doddering old imbecile, Neal. Come up here next to me so that I don’t look like I’m the senile one talking to myself!”

     The words were barely out of his mouth when he noticed a stranger unobtrusively slip a folded piece of paper into Neal’s pocket as he passed the young man. Neal had seemed oblivious to the slight of hand movement, but Peter would bet a week’s salary that Neal was mindful of the gesture. Neal Caffrey was always hyper-aware of his surroundings. So, yeah, he knew.

     Peter’s training as a lawman kicked in. He always took note of the people passing on the street. It was second nature to be vigilant against anyone who might present a threat. He could visualize the stranger in his mind’s eye after only a quick glance. He was approximately 5’10” tall, rather stocky in build, and had thick sandy hair and dark eyes. A very distinguishing feature was a long, jagged scar down his left cheek.

     Peter let the incident pass. However, he vowed that he would get to the bottom of the puzzle in his own time, and then take appropriate action. First, he would see what Neal decided to do with the note that was in his pocket. Until then, he would lie in wait like a spider in a web.


	5. Chapter 5

     That night there was no sleep for Peter. He lay under the covers in his bed fully dressed and ready to spring into action. He watched closely as Neal stuck to his usual routine of a nightly shower before retiring to his room. However, when Peter’s bedroom clock showed that it was 3:00 AM, the vigilant man detected a faint stirring. He pulled Neal’s tracking app up on his fob and saw the small blinking dot moving stealthily through the house. Peter followed just as furtively. He found that Neal had disabled the house alarm, and Peter wondered exactly how and when Neal had figured out the combination of numbers on the keypad. Thankfully, there was a full moon that night enabling the hunter to observe his quarry out in the tiny fenced-in yard. He was in deep conversation with the stranger who had passed him on the street earlier in the day. However, Peter couldn’t hear their words, so he drew his gun from its holster and crept slowly out onto the small lawn, carefully keeping to the dark shadows, until he was within earshot.

     “Travis,” Neal was cautioning, “it’s too risky for you to be here. Peter Burke is dangerous, and, if he catches you, he’ll put you away.”

     Peter had to strain to hear the newcomer’s words. “No worries Neal, I can do risky. Hell, you and I have been doing ‘risky’ our whole lives. When I finally tracked down where they had sent you, I just needed to make sure that you were okay. I worry about my little Bro, you know.”

     Neal and Travis were not really brothers. They had grown up in the same orphanage seemingly a lifetime ago. Travis was four years older than Neal, and had been a scrappy kid with a good heart. He was always determined to protect the underdog. He had fought a young Neal’s battles over and over against older, bigger, and nastier boys, and Neal loved him as much as any real blood relative. When Travis was booted out of the childcare system and onto the street at age eighteen, Neal had eagerly trailed along behind his idol. Travis was the only real family that the boy had ever known. When his savior began putting together his own little street gang, Neal was right by his side—that is, until he got caught.

     “It’s my fault that the ‘Order’ nabbed you, Neal,” Travis said ruefully.

     “No, it’s not.” Neal argued. “I’m the one who messed up, so it’s my fault that I got caught.”

     “You didn’t mess up, Neal,” Travis claimed vehemently. “That fucker, Ericson, squealed like a pig to the law before the caper went down. You were a sitting duck. I recruited that traitor, so, yeah, when everything is said and done, this bullshit is all on me. Well, let me tell you, that Judas didn’t live long enough to spend his thirty pieces of silver. I saw to that. Not that it’s doing you any good right now.”

     “You killed him?” Neal whispered in stunned disbelief. “Travis, if they catch you now, they’ll exterminate you with the needle because you committed a violent crime.”

     “Well, then that’s how it will end—quick and clean. That’s better than working my ass off in some mine until I drop, or being marooned for years on end in some fuckin’ ocean on a drilling rig. And this isn’t how your story should end either—being a lackey for some idiot bureaucrat for the rest of your life.

     Listen, Bro, I’ve got a plan. I got a guy waiting in the wings who has the skills to dig that thing out of your neck safely. Right now, what we have to do is get the key fob off Burke to keep it from being activated until after the little surgery. Then we can take off for parts unknown—maybe even to a different country. You’re really smart, so you could teach me how to speak another language.”

     Peter could now make out the sheen of a switchblade knife in the moonlight.

     “No, no, no,” Neal stuttered. “You can’t hurt Peter.”

     “What’s wrong with you, Bro? Surely, your situation isn’t tolerable. Everyone’s heard all the stories about how acolytes are mistreated, and that’s not something that you deserve. I just want to protect you like I’ve always done,” Travis said adamantly.

     “It’s not so bad,” Neal said softly. Then he amended his statement. “It’s not really good, but it could be a whole lot worse.”

     “So, let’s take care of your problem tonight before it has a chance to get worse, Neal. I promise that Burke won’t know what hit him. I can’t guarantee that it will be painless, but I’ll make sure that it’s quick,” Travis promised.

     Peter had heard enough and took that opportunity to step out of the shadows, gun steadied in both hands. He sighted his weapon on center mass as he coolly addressed the man wielding the switchblade.

     “Nobody is going under the knife tonight,” Peter said in an authoritative voice. “Drop your weapon, scumbag, then get down on your knees and place both hands on your head!”

     Peter realized that this was always the dicey part because you never knew what criminals were going to do when the chips were down. He didn’t dare take his eyes off the man before him. Thus, he was blindsided when Neal suddenly launched himself at Peter’s midsection with a vengeance born out of desperation. He was like a determined fullback on the gridiron, giving the thrust everything that he had. Peter went down hard, the gun flying from his hand, as he was temporarily gasping for breath. When he could again get air into his lungs, he stood up shakily. Neal had scuttled backwards on the ground and was looking up at him fearfully with his hands raised in surrender. Travis was nowhere in sight.

     Peter retrieved his weapon. Now it was pointed at Neal as Peter’s rage came pouring out.

     “You have five seconds to tell me who that was, Neal. A name—I want his fucking name now!”

     Neal eased back on his elbows and stared at Peter with wide eyes. Almost imperceptibly, he moved his head from side to side. Peter’s eyes narrowed for a second before he proceeded to address Neal in a deceptively soft voice.

     “Well, then, let’s move along to the next order of business, shall we. What you just did was an act of violence against your superior. When you laid your hands on me, Neal, you sealed your fate. I am within my rights to put you down right here in the dirt, and no one would have a problem with that. You’ll just become another criminal statistic, and I can replace you tomorrow. Do you get it now, Neal? Do you realize that I can kill you in the next minute and it would be considered justified?”

     Neal gave Peter an unfathomable look before lowering his head. “I know you can.”

     Peter held the gun unwaveringly in his hands. His finger was putting pressure on the trigger. Time seemed to stand still, the clarity of it all hanging frozen and menacing in the air. They were at a crossroads, and no matter what happened, there was no turning back, no rewind button. However, there was another button. It was on the key fob in his pocket, and that was the button that Peter decided to push.

     Neal immediately let out an inhuman scream before his body jerked and went horribly rigid. Then his torso arched torturously causing his spine to resemble a taut bowstring. After a second, his limbs started to flail as a grand mal seizure took possession of him. Peter was stunned by the spectacle before him, never expecting this dire result. The jerky spasms seemed to go on relentlessly, even as Peter dropped to his knees and put a supportive arm around his acolyte’s shoulders. Neal’s unfocused eyes were glazed and twitching, and he seemed to have stopped breathing. There was an ominous blueness ringing his mouth. Like a frantic and worried parent, Peter found himself rocking the tense, spastic man in his arms, and praying that what he had set in motion would stop.

     “Please Neal, be okay. Be okay!” Peter’s mind chanted.

     After what seemed like an eternity, the violent tonic-clonic muscle contractions lost their intensity, and Neal became as limp as a rag doll. Peter placed his hand on the young man’s chest and breathed a sigh of relief when he detected the gentle rise and fall of the rib cage once again. Try as he might, Peter could not rouse the prone man from his post-ictal sleep, so he carefully hoisted the unconscious burden and returned to the house. When he made it to the second floor, he laid Neal on the bed and used warm towels to wash the dirt and dried saliva from his face. Then he climbed onto the bed to lay beside him. Peter was determined to keep watch through the rest of the night to reassure himself that his acolyte kept breathing. He lightly ran his thumb over the small scar behind Neal’s left ear and shivered at the potency of the tiny embedded grenade.

     When his fraught nerves had settled a bit, Peter kept going over his actions again and again. Years ago, he had received basic instructions regarding the subcutaneous implant. He was told that when the button on the key fob was pushed, an electronic pulse would be transmitted to the threatening and dangerous offender. That stimuli would be strong enough to disable and disorient the recipient, although it was never specified how that was accomplished.

     Peter had naively assumed that the shock would cause distracting pain, but he never dreamed how devastatingly effective the result would be. He had never before pushed that button. His former acolyte, Mort Ferber, was as timid as a mouse and afraid of his own shadow, so the need had never arisen. However, over the years, Peter had heard other section chiefs boast about employing it to “teach their acolytes a lesson.” Now those bragging claims seemed all kinds of wrong.

      Neal didn’t deserve what Peter had done to him tonight, and the lawman felt ashamed. Human beings should not do that to each other because it was akin to torture. His only hope was that Neal wouldn’t remember anything about the episode once he woke up.

     Sometime before the early rays of the dawn broke through the window, Neal moaned softly. Without coming fully awake, he rolled towards Peter’s body heat and nestled himself close to his watchful sentry. As Peter ran his fingers gently through Neal’s hair, he whispered a new chant.

     “Please don’t remember, Neal. Please don’t remember.”


	6. Chapter 6

     Apparently, somebody above had heard Peter’s prayer and granted him absolution, because when Neal came fully awake an hour later, he appeared totally confused. He eyed Peter warily, and seemed to be mystified that his superior was in his bed, and that both of them were fully dressed. Peter didn’t enlighten him; he just gruffly told him to get ready for work.

     This workday was quite a bit different from the ones that had preceded it. Peter was no longer the harsh taskmaster on a tear. If his team noticed his new sense of decorum, they knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. If the boss was happy, then they were happy. Neal just kept waiting for evil Mr. Hyde to replace benevolent Dr. Jekyll.

     As the days turned into weeks and then months, Peter’s temper remained on an even keel, and Neal allowed himself to relax a bit. The two partners now worked in tandem to solve more than a few intriguing cases, and even brought other files home to discuss over tensionless dinners in the evenings. His handler never again sexually approached Neal, and the young man knew it was probably too much to hope that it would remain that way. However, in the meantime, he enjoyed a pleasant existence in the Burke home, and sometimes even found himself laughing with his superior over some whimsy or office gossip. Weekends were their time to unwind—Peter with a beer and a game on the tube, and Neal with a glass of wine and a sketchbook. In the deep reaches of each of their minds, both probably had similar thoughts. Were they just making the best of the situation, or did they really enjoy each other’s company?

     Peter’s new attitude and acceptance of Neal as almost an equal had a trickle-down effect on the team. They began to forget that he was an indentured acolyte as they noted the synchronicity between the two men of different stations. Neal and Peter routinely had their heads together figuring out solutions to combat crime, and Neal no longer walked two steps behind his handler. Now he matched Peter stride for stride out on the street while doing reconnaissance work, or when taking a lunch break at a café. In team conferences, Peter most often deferred to his partner’s logical hunches. It became apparent to everyone with eyes that Peter respected Neal’s brilliance. So, in time, the young criminal seamlessly blended into the group of lawmen around him because they came to value him as well.

     Down the road, the determined partners finally managed to take down the elusive cadre responsible for counterfeiting US currency. They also caught an upper management mogul skimming profits from his company, and went on to prove bank fraud and illegitimate transactions at one of New York’s respected banking institutions.

     With Neal at his side, Peter’s star continued to rise, except now it was akin to a comet blazing across the sky. Their partnership became the stuff of legends within the Order; however, it was the members of Peter’s team who acknowledged that the two would always watch each other’s backs. Only Peter knew that he still had to watch his own back as well. “Travis,” the stocky, sandy-haired shadow with a scar was still at large and a threat to him.

     Then one day, everything imploded.

     The Order became aware that there was some very potent new crack-cocaine making its way up the northeast corridor from the Caribbean. The Order also knew that the final destination was New York City for distribution, but they couldn’t seem to stop the flow along Interstate 95. The importers were quite clever and interspersed decoy trucks among the ones actually transporting the glassine bags in crates labeled “Raw Sugar” from Haiti. Once the product reached New York, it was cut with other additives, re-bagged into smaller parcels, and sent out on the street. The lawmen had managed to snag the small fry in the operation, but could not get close to those honchos at the top of the heap.

     Neal was tasked with putting the word out in the right ears that he had connections abroad to provide another lucrative market for the dope. He made it known that he would only talk with the elite who headed up the enterprise here in New York, and he wanted to see the facilities before any deals were hammered out. He had a reputation to uphold in the underworld that he inhabited, so he needed to be sure that the distributors' street cred was not overblown or bogus. He also wanted to reassure himself that they could keep up with the foreign demand if a contract was initiated.

     It was tediously labor intensive, but little by little, Neal worked his way up the ladder, being arduously vetted by one tier after another. His fictional backstory held up to the scrutiny, and he was finally given the green light. The top bosses would grant him an audience, and his ride would be picking him up from the “Four Seasons Hotel” on 57th Street in Manhattan. Peter and several SWAT teams would follow Neal’s tracking data to the motherlode.

     Neal was met right on schedule by a stretch limo with darkly tinted windows that slid sinuously like a caterpillar through the streets of Manhattan towards the borough of Queens. Eventually, it pulled to a stop in front of an isolated warehouse in Little Neck. Using a telescopic lens, Peter saw Neal being pulled from the backseat with his eyes obscured by a blindfold. His escorts then took him through one of the massive doors at the entrance.

    The paramilitary units quietly spilled out of their own vehicles and quickly set up a precise perimeter two deep around the warehouse. They had flash bang stun grenades, battering rams, and AK47s at the ready. However, there was no bullhorn to demand a surrender—why announce a surprise raid? The criminals in that warehouse were going down hard. At the team leader’s command, a hundred deadly armed men suddenly breached the corrugated metal building and opened fire with abandon.

     Peter, also attired in flack gear, was right behind the advance team. Once inside, his eyes searched for his acolyte among the strafing gunfire and smoky haze, and he experienced an adrenalin spike when he located him on the floor in a rapidly expanding pool of red. Neal had been a casualty caught in the crossfire, and was bleeding out before Peter’s eyes. Without regard for his own safety, Peter pulled his partner outside into the night air, and used both hands to try and staunch the steadily seeping blood.

     “I’ve got you, Neal,” Peter growled hoarsely. “Just hang on, Buddy. Don’t give up on me now!”

     Neal continued to stare up at Peter with wide, bewildered eyes, but didn’t answer. For the first time, Peter worried that Neal would not obey a command that he was given. It was hell waiting for the rescue squad to pull up after the scene had been cleared. The adept medical personal quickly packed the wound with a thick pressure dressing and loaded the barely conscious man into their vehicle. Peter clamored in beside the stretcher, still arrayed in his bulky tactical armor.

     They lost Neal twice on the way to the nearest hospital, but, by sheer tenacity, the EMTs managed to snag him from the jaws of death each time. And each time, Peter had held his breath and tried to will his strength into his wounded acolyte. He wasn’t sure what was going on once Neal was whisked through a set of double doors at the trauma center. Later he would find out that his young partner had been in surgery for over six hours. The surgeon didn’t sugarcoat the news when he found Peter in the waiting room. He announced that it had been touch and go, and Neal was far from out of the woods. Only time would tell them the ultimate outcome.

     Peter stayed at Neal’s bedside, and was touched when members of his team trickled in, one after the other, to inquire about the genial young man who had somehow wormed his way into their hearts. He wished that he had a more definitive prognosis than “we’ll have to wait and see.”

     It wasn’t as if the medical team had given up on Neal. They were constantly adding new complicated machinery as necessary, pushing more and more blood through the intravenous line in his left arm, while taking tubes and tubes of blood for testing from his right arm. Peter lost count of the number of wires and lines attached to Neal’s body. The most worrisome thing was the young man’s unresponsiveness.

     Somehow, he made it through the first week, finally opening his blue eyes lethargically. Peter was seated beside him so he witnessed the initial confusion that quickly turned into panic. Peter hastily touched his acolyte’s arm and spoke softly.

     “It’s okay, Neal. I’m here and you’re going to be okay.”

     Neal immediately turned his head toward that familiar voice and settled weakly back into the pillow. He then closed his eyes again and drifted off. This became the pattern—short periods of awareness, then long periods of sleep.

     “His body is trying to heal itself,” the doctors told Peter. “You need to be patient.”

     Well, patience was not a virtue that Peter embraced. It was hard for him to sit still, so he took frequent breaks to roam the corridors of the hospital. Maybe his mind was preoccupied and overwrought, but on more than one occasion, he could swear that he saw the stocky, sandy-haired man with the scar slip around a corner or down a stairwell. He doubted that this “Travis” dude would try anything here in the crowded hospital. Maybe he was simply hanging around trying to get a bead on Neal’s condition. Just the same, Peter made sure to change the combination on his home alarm.


	7. Chapter 7

     Neal’s inpatient hospital stay lasted over three weeks in duration. The muscles and tissues in his young body were healing nicely; however, the trajectory of the bullet had badly damaged a lobe of his lung and that would take much longer to heal. Because of that, he had trouble catching his breath, and any exertion brought on weakness and fatigue. Peter would watch him walk slowly down the hall beside his physical therapist hanging tightly onto his IV pole to keep himself erect. When he eventually made it back to his room, he was pale and totally wiped out. Neal absolutely hated wearing the nasal cannula for additional oxygen, claiming that it made him continually inhale the irritating smell of plastic. Peter decided to pick his battles with his cranky acolyte, and let the nurses deal with the ensuing arguments.

     Finally, the doctor signed Neal’s discharge papers with very specific instructions for a gradual and safe convalescence. When they arrived at the townhouse, Peter was right behind his charge as he determinedly climbed the stairs to his room. The stubborn patient spurned Peter’s help even though they had to stop twice on the steps so that Neal could catch his breath. Peter lay beside the young man that night, and for all the nights afterwards. He needed to reassure himself that Neal would keep breathing. Neal didn’t seem to object, and during deep sleep, he would often wriggle towards the stable presence of his superior and settle in for the rest of the night.

     Peter’s nights, however, were far from restful because he knew that Neal’s furtive friend was never far away. He had seen the man’s slinking shadow in the backyard shrubbery through an upstairs window on more than one occasion. Peter really didn’t want another confrontation, so he made sure that the alarm was set in the early evening, and kept his gun close at hand during the darker hours.

     Little by little, Neal was regaining his endurance, and Peter eventually felt comfortable leaving him in the care of a hired nursing aide during the day while Peter went back to work. The very efficient and no-nonsense lady was given specific instructions never to open the door to anyone, and to call Peter with any problem. Of course, Peter insisted on reading Neal the riot act about obeying the strict woman’s orders in his absence. Neal just looked at him drolly and didn’t utter a word. The new plan seemed to be working fairly well except for the fact that Neal didn’t stay complacent and docile for very long. Every night after Peter came home from the office, he had to listen to Neal’s constant carping that he did not need a babysitter. He could take care of himself! Peter simply ignored the complaints and turned a deaf ear to the whining.

*****

     At the beginning of the next week, Consortium Head Bancroft paid a visit to Peter’s office.

    “It’s good to see you again, Burke, however I don’t see your acolyte around anywhere.”

     “Well, Sir, he’s still convalescing after being shot a few weeks ago during the takedown of the drug ring in Queens,” Peter answered respectfully.

     Bancroft frowned. “Acolytes are to be utilized as slave labor, Peter, not coddled.”

     Peter suddenly felt defensive. “I think that I should point out that Neal was responsible for the success of that mission, and for his assistance, he was actually shot by friendly fire.”

     Bancroft didn’t like Peter’s tone. “That’s exactly why we send acolytes in first to dangerous situations, Section Chief Burke. They’re just criminals, and if they become collateral damage, then so be it.”

     “Neal is an asset, Sir, and has a great deal of value to the Order.” Peter argued.

     Now Bancroft’s ire was up and he was on a roll. “Well, let’s talk about value, shall we. I was forwarded a copy of Caffrey’s hospital bill, and it was huge. Is he really worth that much to the Order? He could be replaced in a second with another body who is just as much of a brilliant asset.”

     “Neal is uniquely more qualified than just the average smart criminal,” Peter insisted.

     Bancroft’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to ask again. Exactly where is your acolyte right this very minute, Section Chief Burke?”

     “At present, Sir, he is staying in my townhouse under the care of a nurse’s aide whose salary I am paying out of my own pocket,” Peter qualified.

     Bancroft’s eyes darkened. “That does not make me the least bit comfortable. Surely, you did not entrust your key fob to a civilian with no training in overseeing acolytes!”

     “No, Sir. I have the key fob in my pocket. Neal certainly does not have the endurance to try an escape at this point in time. However, I know him very well, and I don’t believe that he would try to leave, even if he could.” Peter realized that he had really stepped in it this time.

     “Perhaps you have gotten too attached to your charge, Burke,” Bancroft said icily. “Emotions should play no part in the pairing of a section chief and his acolyte. You use them as a tool to get the job done—end of story. You should not feel any sense of admiration, obligation, or trust. They are lowly criminals, and their lot in life is what they deserve for breaking the law.”

     “They are also human beings, Consortium Head Bancroft!” Peter was way, way out on a very unstable limb that he could feel cracking under his weight.

     Bancroft stood up abruptly, and Peter did the same.

     “They are criminals!” Bancroft spit out. “And as such, they are expected to provide a service to justify their existences. In my experience, once an acolyte gets injured in an incident such as this, they tend to get gun shy and do not give it their all. In a nutshell, they cease to have any value. At that point, the most ‘ _humane_ ’ thing to do is to euthanize them.”

     Peter was stunned. He had no idea that this discussion would end with a threat.

     “Sir, you can’t possibly be serious!”

     “I’m completely serious, Section Chief,” Bancroft glowered. “Perhaps you have forgotten your mission as part of the Order. You are to follow the dictates set down by those in power above you without question.”

     Bancroft concluded the conversation by throwing out a very short lifeline.

     “Caffrey has until the beginning of next week to be in this office and up to speed physically and mentally for any operation. If that doesn’t happen, then I’ll make sure that he is remanded back into the Order’s custody until arrangements can be made to terminate him.”

*****

     Peter finished out the day in a daze. Upon arriving home, he paid the nursing aide her wages in cash, and told her that they could manage by themselves from now on. Neal was beyond pleased.

     “Don’t worry, Peter, I’m not some fragile flower that’s suddenly going to wilt,” he reassured his handler.

     “I know that, Neal,” Peter answered fondly.

     For the rest of the evening, Peter remained unusually quiet. Neal had picked up on the tension in his superior, and it worried him. It was almost as if the young man could sense that he was at the heart of the problem. Peter just rearranged the meal on his plate, eating little before he then suggested that they call it an early night.

     Once upstairs, Neal was surprised to see Peter head for his own bedroom. He remained there even after Neal had taken his shower. Something was really, really wrong! The acolyte wavered indecisively in the hall. Peter’s door was closed, and Neal stood for an eternity with his hand on the knob. Everything was so different now. Handler and criminal had become close enough that Neal, without even realizing it, had stopped feeling afraid and always on guard against harm. Peter made him feel safe. Neal’s emotions were all jumbled up as he came to the conclusion that somehow the enemy had morphed into an entity that Neal couldn’t name. Exactly what had Peter become to him? Finally, the confused young man decided to go in the direction that his heart led him.

     Peter heard his door open slowly, and saw Neal silhouetted in the light from the hall. He looked like a skittish cat, unsure and timid. Finally, a decision seemed to have been reached as the young man made his way slowly to Peter’s bed.

      Slithering under the covers and burrowing up to Peter’s side, he whispered, “I know something is wrong. What can I do to help?”

     “You can’t help, Neal,” Peter choked out, a sheen suddenly glistening in his eyes. He forced his eyelids closed, but not before the tears ran down from the corners.

     Peter felt Neal move closer. To the older man’s sudden shock, his acolyte leaned over and traced the salty paths of those tears with his tongue, and then he placed a tender kiss on Peter’s lips. Peter again stifled a sob and took the young man’s face in his hands, returning the kiss just as gently. Neal became emboldened when there was no resistance, and continued the unexpected seduction by running his hands down Peter’s torso. When Peter did not object to his touch, Neal’s hands descended lower to his handler’s cock. Bending forward, he took him into his mouth, sucking and teasing and coating him liberally with saliva.

     When Peter was fully aroused, Neal slowly and sensuously crawled atop the older man and guided the swollen organ between his buttocks. Peter caught his breath when he encountered a ring of tightness as unyielding as the first time that he had entered that orifice months ago. He attempted to pull away, but Neal was determined, and Peter tried to pace the slow invasion so that he wouldn’t cause pain.

     When Peter was fully engulfed in the hotness, he pulled Neal onto his chest and held him in a loose embrace before he bent his own knees and placed his feet flat on the sheets. He waited for Neal’s body to become accustomed to the thickness within it. Then the steady rocking in and out began in earnest, with Neal grabbing each of Peter’s hands into one of his own and entwining their fingers. As Peter fucked the young man face to face, he couldn’t help but feel the hardness between them. To his surprise, Neal’s erection was rigid and straining, and it didn’t take long for the young lover to experience an orgasm. As white, ropey ribbons of semen sluiced between them, Peter climaxed as well. Panting and spent, both men collapsed in a post-coital stupor.

     “I love you, Peter,” Neal eventually whispered softly into Peter’s chest.

     Those poignant words caused Peter to feel the sting of tears once more because his own emotions were raw. He realized that what had once been just the basest of desires on his part had insidiously crystalized into a deeper hunger and a profound passion. He truly loved Neal, but that honest clarity came with horrendously unbearable consequences.      


	8. Chapter 8

    On Tuesday morning, Peter awoke with a new resolve and spent the entire day out on the street. He had prudently removed the battery from his phone so that his movements could not be tracked, if anyone thought it necessary. Right now, with the way things had been left between himself and Bancroft, Peter couldn’t be sure of anything. He traveled to some pretty dubious areas of the city, but, eventually, he had everything that he needed. He made a brief appearance in his office at the end of the day and found that everything had remained calm in his absence, and nobody had asked where he had been during the work hours.

     However, Peter had his own questions—well, just one, really. A vague thought had niggled at the edges of his mind all day. Would Neal try to run now that he was unsupervised? Peter had adamantly preached that tenet of faith to Bancroft, but he still worried. He could have checked Neal’s whereabouts on his key fob, but he perversely wouldn’t allow himself to do that. Instead, he wondered if Neal really meant that confession of love last night? And, how did that stack up against a lifetime of freedom if he made it far enough beyond the reaches of the key fob? If Neal managed to make it over the United States’ border, Peter was pretty sure the chip would be defunct, but until then …… well, that was when he was most vulnerable. Peter, himself, really didn’t know the distance for the disabler’s ability to be effective. But, he would bet his last dollar that Neal knew the answer down to the inch.

     A tense and anxious Peter arrived home at a fairly reasonable hour fearing the worst. However, when he opened the door to the townhouse, his olfactory senses came alive with the aroma of a mouthwatering essence. He found Neal in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on a complicated paella. A bottle of Montebuena Cuvee Rioja was uncorked and chilling in a bucket on the table. Peter expelled a pent up breath and kissed his acolyte delicately on the lips. Dinner was superb and the company relaxed and lighthearted. When Neal stood up to clear the dishes, Peter also rose and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

     “Do that tomorrow. Let’s go upstairs,” he whispered enticingly.

     For only the second time in their brief history together, Peter and Neal shared a shower, and it was a rather intense undertaking. As Peter glided his soapy hands over Neal’s back and down his flanks, his lover leaned back into Peter’s chest. Finally, when both were ready, Neal braced his hands on the tiled wall as Peter entered him from behind. Both men panted and rocked to a rhythm as old as time. Eventually, the cascade of water washed away their sweat and their semen.

     Later, atop the coolness of crisp sheets, they explored each other’s bodies once again. Peter traced his tongue around the dark areolas of Neal’s nipples before pinching and tugging. His tongue softly licked the dark, healed spot on Neal’s chest that gave testament to the wound that could have taken him away forever. Peter’s hands bracketed the beautiful young man’s hips as his head descended to the more intense regions. Peter was reaching for the lube when Neal’s words stayed his hands.

     “You can tie me up if that would make it better for you,” he whispered softly.

     Peter smiled as he answered, “The only thing that I want holding you is my arms, Neal.”

     With that, he turned Neal gently onto his side. In response, Neal raised his legs and wrapped them around Peter’s waist as he nestled in close. Peter slid home with ease and they were like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle coming together—a perfect fit.

     Eventually, Neal was sated and well beyond his endurance, so he quickly fell into a deep sleep. Peter just lay watching his even breathing and the occasional movement behind his closed eyelids. He wondered if Neal was dreaming, and pondered what dramas those ethereal mind movies were playing out in the complex young man’s mind.

     Shortly after midnight, Peter cautiously eased away and put on some clothes. Once downstairs, he puttered around in the kitchen for another hour, rinsing dishes and killing time. His eyes darted frequently through the window of the backdoor. Finally, a little after 2 AM, his patience was rewarded when he saw the ghost of the shadow who habitually haunted his small backyard.

     Peter opened the kitchen door, and a wide swathe of illumination splayed out onto the sparse grass. Peter cautiously stepped out into that light like a solo performer on stage awaiting his cue. Moving gradually and carefully, he laid a small canvas bag at his feet. After a few minutes, there was a change in the air around him. It seemed to be weightier and statically charged, and he knew that he was no longer alone. His company was most likely watching him from the safety of the privet hedge.

     Peter slowly held his arms out from his sides, his empty palms facing forward.

     “I know that you are out here watching me, and it’s time that we talk about Neal. Show yourself. I’m unarmed so I am no threat to you. I just want to talk about something very important,” Peter said into the darkness.

     When nothing happened, Peter pushed the envelope.

     “Are you still a coward like the last time we came face to face? You took off like a frightened rabbit, leaving Neal to deal with the consequences. What kind of friend is that?”

     Finally, a menacing black shape appeared and answered in a bitter voice.

     “A weak, gutless friend whose punishment was to hear exactly what you did to Neal when I left so abruptly. My tormented penance from that day forward is to re-live hearing it over and over, night after night.”

     “Not that it’s any excuse,” Peter answered sadly, “but that is exactly my penance, too. I have been regretting the one and only time that I have ever pushed that button because I got to see, up close and personal, how terribly sadistic and inhumane that punishment really is. Neal did not deserve what I did to him that night. And, I swear, it never happened again.

     I am assuming that you have a weapon of some sort, Travis. I wouldn’t expect any less. As I said, I am unarmed, giving you the edge here, so I wouldn’t be very smart if I lied to you.”

     The two men eyed each other like two gunslingers in the Old Wild West. Finally, Travis broke the silence.

     “I made it my business to find out just how much more you intended to brutalize him. You government people may think that you are safe behind your little walls, but us ‘criminals’ have eyes and ears embedded in every one of your mighty fortresses, and we know what goes on there.”

     Peter did not doubt the man’s sincerity in the least.

     “Then your spies must have told you that Neal was treated with respect both here and at the office. He was happy and contented and enjoyed his work.”

     “Yeah, sure,” Travis snorted, “he _enjoyed_ being shot down in the dirt like a rabid dog. I saw him in that hospital circling the drain. That was your doing, Burke. You put him in harm’s way.”

     “I don’t make the rules, Travis. I have to follow them like everybody else—up to a point.” Peter clarified.

     “What’s that supposed to mean?” Travis demanded.

     “Yesterday, I was informed by my superior that Neal is marked for termination on Monday. The Order is going to euthanize him because he hasn’t been able to fulfill his duties as an acolyte. I cannot let that happen,” Peter said forcefully.

     “I ought to throw this knife through your black heart right now,” Travis growled.

     “That wouldn’t be a wise move, my friend, because I may be Neal’s only lifeline. In this bag by my foot is everything that you will need to get Neal to safety. There is a new life for him in that bag—plenty of cash, a birth certificate, a driver’s license, and a pristine new passport that will withstand the closest scrutiny at any US border. It’s his face but with a new identity.

     You claimed that you have someone who is capable of safely extracting Neal’s chip. Take him there tomorrow while I’m at the office, and then get him far away as quickly as possible. Take him to Sweden, Brazil, Australia, a deserted island—just somewhere outside of the United States,” Peter pleaded.

     Travis’ snort was loud and obnoxious. “Right—sure! You talk a good game, Burke. If I show up tomorrow, are you going to be here gleefully pushing your little button so that I can see Neal suffer before I take a few bullets from your goon squad?”

     “Neal’s key fob is also in that bag,” Peter assured the doubter.

     “How do I know it’s the real deal?” Travis made a good point.

     “I suppose that you’ll have to trust me the same way that I am trusting you not to kill me right now where I stand,” Peter answered.

     “This makes no sense,” Travis challenged. “Why would you do this?”

     It was time for honesty. “Because I have come to love him, and I can’t stand by and let this happen.”

     A cynical laugh erupted in the gloom. “Love him! You’re not in love, Burke, you’re in lust. I’ve protected Neal from predators like you ever since he was a kid. With his looks, I suppose it’s never going to stop.”

     “It’s not like that, Travis. Neal loves me, too,” Peter argued.

     Travis was not going to let himself be convinced. “Maybe you’ve scrambled his brains more often than the one time that you admit, or maybe you’ve managed to brainwash him—make him ever so thankful for whatever small crumb of kindness that you throw him.”

     “No matter what I say, I’ll probably never convince you,” Peter retorted. “You’ll just have to make up your mind after you talk to Neal. But, please make that soon. The clock is ticking. I’ll try to buy you as much time as possible, but I would not put it past the Order to have someone check up on me. Get him across the US border. Tell him that is what I want. And tell him that I am sorry,” Peter concluded sadly.

     Then Peter kicked the canvas bag in Travis’ direction, turned his back on the man, and re-entered the kitchen. As much as it hurt, he fervently hoped that Neal’s friend would come through for him.


	9. Chapter 9

     Peter returned to the bedroom to slide in beside the man that he loved and desperately wanted to protect at all costs. He spent the rest of the early morning hours watching Neal sleep, and before the crack of dawn, placed a butterfly kiss on his temple, left a note on the night table, and slipped silently from the room.

     The troubled Sector Chief drove to a nearby diner and settled himself into a booth where he morosely nursed cup after cup of high-octane coffee. He wondered if today would be the day that Travis would come, or even if he would come at all. If he did come, Peter wondered if Neal would be able to read between the lines of his note and agree to accompany his friend to safety. Peter had written that he loved Neal with a passion that he had never experienced before, and because of those feelings, he would always want what was best for Neal. He hoped that Neal understood what had to be done. Sometimes loving someone meant letting them go.

     Peter couldn’t delay going to the office any longer. Once there, he put on the best acting performance of his life, issuing directives, demanding reports, and being a stern and decisive Sector Chief. He thought that he was pulling it off even though his heart was breaking. His team took his dour mood in stride. They had seen the argument with Consortium Head Bancroft that occurred behind closed doors, and assumed that confrontation was the reason for their superior’s ugly mood. Of course, none would have the audacity to ask him.

     Thankfully, there had been no return visit from Bancroft or anyone else higher up the ladder in the Order. Peter actually stayed an hour longer than his normal quitting time before driving out to Brooklyn. When his key opened the front door, Peter knew that the die had been cast. Although everything looked the same, there somehow seemed a hollowness within the walls making the space appear cold and forlorn. Peter knew that he was projecting his own feelings upon an inanimate object of brick and mortar, but that’s how he felt, nonetheless. He would not allow himself to ascend the stairs to the bedrooms—not yet. He had to first become acclimated to the void that now filled his existence. Nothing seemed any different in the kitchen where he made himself a sandwich that he couldn’t eat. He sat still as a statue in the Windsor chair in the living room until darkness came. Then he allowed himself to climb the stairs sluggishly.

     Neal’s bed was neatly made, but Peter pulled the coverlet and blanket away before he lay upon the sheets. He brought Neal’s pillow to his face and inhaled the lingering essence of the beautiful young man who had once been his possession, only to later become his lover. His dreams that night were of trusting blue eyes and wistful smiles. In the morning, Peter dragged himself into the shower where he had previously experienced the ultimate delight of passion. Eventually, when he stepped out into the steamy room, his eyes immediately became riveted on the mirror above the sink. In the center of the cloudy condensation, there were three distinct words that stood out amidst the moisture _—“I’m sorry too!”_  It broke his heart to scrub away the sentiment with ammonia, but he could not let the evidence appear if the Order decided to search his house after Peter reported his acolyte’s absence.

     As promised, Peter waited until he arrived home on Friday evening before placing the dreaded call to the Order’s Retrieval Team. He told the Sector Chief in that division that his acolyte, Neal Caffrey, was in the wind after he had stolen Peter’s key fob and disappeared. The Chief took the information, asking for background data, and then reassured Peter that the Retrieval Office had the master keys to all the fobs.

     “Depending on how much head start your guy has, we may be able to intercept him and stop him in his tracks,” the Retrieval expert stated. “However, Canada is not that far away, and if he made it over that border, then the fob is useless, and we have no authority to bring him back, even if we were allowed to search for him there. We’ll do what we can and get back to you.”

     Peter hoped, with all of his being, that by now Neal was safely out of the country, even miles beyond nearby Canada. The weekend remained quiet and passed with no word from anyone. However, on Monday morning, Consortium Head Bancroft was waiting for him.

     “Sector Chief Burke, I was made aware that your acolyte fled on Friday taking his key fob with him. That makes two acolyte assets that you have managed to lose in the last year.”

     Peter was tempted to tell his superior that he would have lost Neal anyway, regardless of how it came to be. The Order would have seen to that by making good on its threat to euthanize him. Instead, Peter opted to say nothing.

     “Exactly how did he come to get hold of your key fob?” Bancroft wanted to know.

     Peter lied through his teeth. “Well, Neal was a very accomplished pickpocket, Sir. I suppose that I should have made sure that I had it on my person when I was here at work on Friday, but the thought never crossed my mind.”

     “Yes,” Bancroft agreed, “a very slipshod approach by someone who should have been a lot wiser and more careful. Perhaps, Caffrey was a master manipulator as well—a con man—because he certainly conned you into believing that he was too injured to resume his duties. He also convinced you that he would not flee. Shame on you for being taken in by a criminal. No matter how smart they are, we are supposed to be smarter.”

     Peter stood ramrod straight but kept his mouth shut during the berating.

     Bancroft was wily, and kicked his interrogation up a notch. “Exactly why do you think that Caffrey chose now to escape, just days before he was to be turned over to the Order?”

     Peter looked his superior in the eye defiantly. “Maybe because I told him that he would be returning to the Order’s Remand Unit. Neal is not stupid. He put two and two together, and I didn’t have to spell out his fate because he already knew what was going to happen.”

     Bancroft matched Peter’s stare. “Again, I will reiterate. That was a very careless and unwise thing to do. Mark my words; there will be repercussions, Burke. Caffrey is out there somewhere in the world where we cannot touch him, probably laughing his ass off. The Order does not like to look bad, and, thanks to your shoddiness, that is exactly what has happened.”

*****

     Bancroft made good on his threat. There were, indeed, repercussions. Peter was demoted, and relinquished his rank as Sector Chief. He became one of the rank and file in his own division working right along side of those whom he had previously commanded. Bancroft kept him there instead of a more discrete reassignment to another unit. He wanted to make an example of Peter to everyone, showing them just how far the mighty could fall if they did not follow the Order’s protocols.

      The next Sector Chief arrived with much fanfare—the new “Golden Boy” of the day. He brought his own acolyte with him, a former prostitute whom he utilized to set honey traps to lure men into breaking the law. Somehow, this seemed counterproductive to Peter, enticing men to become criminals instead of dealing with the hard-core ones already on the streets. However, he kept his head down and said nothing.

     He worked dull, laborious hours at his desk, or occasionally went out on the streets under someone else’s supervision. When he was pounding the pavements, his mind would often play tricks on him. He would see a tall, lean, dark haired man and was immediately in pursuit until a good look at the stranger’s face was the only thing that convinced him that it wasn’t Neal.

     If Peter’s days were bad, his nights were worse. They were dark and lonely, and escaping into sleep was his only means of release from the torment. Even though he slept away the hours, he always awoke more tired than when he went to bed. He assumed that he had probably been tensely tossing and turning most of the time. Peter knew that he was getting seriously depressed, but he really didn’t care.

     Finally, six months into his sad existence, a small envelope, with just Peter’s name printed on the outside, had been pushed through his mail slot in the door. He found it laying in the foyer after a very long workday. He opened it with trembling fingers, pulling out a picture postcard of a clear, turquoise surf kissing a beautiful white sand beach. A palm tree stood in the distance, its fronds swaying in an island breeze. Turning it over, Peter saw Neal’s precise printing, _“Miss you. Wish you were here!”_

     Peter sat down on the steps and found that a smile had transformed his mouth. He actually laughed out loud. There was no way that anyone from the Order could find this island paradise because any identifying information on the postcard had been carefully removed with a razor blade or a craft knife. There was no postage mark either; it had been hand-delivered by some messenger stateside—most likely a criminal in Travis’ little posse. Peter remembered that Travis had boasted that they had spies and moles everywhere, so it could even have been somebody in Peter’s own sector.

     Peter was suddenly filled with a new resolve. He would make it his business—actually, very soon—to find out quietly and clandestinely who those like-minded allies were. But, right now, he decided that he really did not need to know the “who” or the “how.” He knew the “what,” and that was enough. Neal was free and safe, and that was the most important thing.

     And maybe someday, in a different place and time, and with a little help from some mysterious unseen friends, Peter would be there, too.

     After all—as the story goes, Peter Burke always finds Neal Caffrey!


End file.
